


So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending

by Mollyraesly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Dany, F/M, Game of Thrones/LOTR crossover fic, actually jonsa, arya is also eowyn, bran is like gandalf, dany is denethor, follows some of the book plot and the show plot, jon is an aragorn figure, sansa is a eowyn/arwen combo, some is invention, there are no hobbits only podricks, veers away from canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-23 06:02:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18148037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mollyraesly/pseuds/Mollyraesly
Summary: A Jonsa-heavy GoT/ASOIAF/LOTR crossover fic.“The world is changed,” Old Nan would always begin the tale. “I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost; for none now live who remember it.”Many of the Stark children would listen to the opening lines with rapt attention as she put down her knitting needles and began one of the North’s most told stories. But as they grew older, one by one they would begin to roll their eyes and maybe even leave the room to go riding or pursue some other worthwhile task like training at swords or sewing. But Bran never left; he always listened to the tale in full. The scary ones were his favorite. “Keep going, Nan,” he’d say.





	1. Prologue

“The world is changed,” Old Nan would always begin the tale. “I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost; for none now live who remember it.”

Many of the Stark children would listen to the opening lines with rapt attention as she put down her knitting needles and began one of the North’s most told stories. But as they grew older, one by one they would begin to roll their eyes and maybe even leave the room to go riding or pursue some other worthwhile task like training at swords or sewing. But Bran never left; he always listened to the tale in full. The scary ones were his favorite. “Keep going, Nan,” he’d say.

“All right, little lord,” she’d comply with the continued click of her knitting needles.

“It began with the Children of the Forest. They had dwelled in the deep woods for untold ages, living off the land and carving faces into their weirwood trees. The Children made peace with the First Men...at first. But they were all of them deceived.

“For the men built permanent settlements and brought with them bronze weapons, great leathern shields, the first horses, and their own gods. And they cut down the Children’s trees.

“One by one the forests were felled for the sake of cities and fires, and the war began. The Children were outnumbered and losing strength with the loss of their magic and their trees.

“But there were some who resisted. They needed a weapon. A pack of Children found one of these men lingering in their forest and captured him. Leaf, the leader of the pack, plunged her obsidian dagger into the man’s heart and witnessed as his eyes turned blue and his skin transformed from flesh to ice. In that moment, the first White Walker was formed, the Night King, who would lead the army of the dead and bring about the Long Night. 

“This would be a winter worse than all the rest. A winter when the snows fall a hundred feet deep, when the sun hides for years, and children are born and live and die, all in darkness. That is when the White Walkers move through the woods. Kings froze to death in their castles, same as the shepherds in their huts, and women smothered their babies rather than see them starve, and wept and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks. The White Walkers swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses, hunting with their packs of pale spiders big as hounds...”

“All right, that’s enough,” Robb would usually interrupt.

“No!” Bran would protest. “Robb—Nan—please I want to hear the rest!”

“And wake up from nightmares about the Others in the middle of the night like I used to about the blue-eyed giant Mecumba? I think not,” Robb would reason with a good-natured laugh. “The White Walkers aren’t real, Bran. There is no Night King coming for us.”

But Robb was wrong; winter was coming and the dead with it. Not that Robb had lived long enough to see it. He’d died in the Twins with their mother when word of the return of the Night King and the Long Night were yet naught but whispers in the dark.


	2. Beren and Lúthien

The Starks had ruled Winterfell for thousands of years since the age of the First Men and the coming of the First Dawn. Winterfell had been subjected to Aegon the Conqueror and his Targaryen heirs along with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, but it had never truly belonged to them. 

The North was a cold place and its people stubborn, loyal, wary of outsiders. They alone still worshipped the Old Gods and prayed underneath their red-leaved weirwood trees. But underneath their icy exterior, the Northerners could be as warm as their hot springs in summer.

It was summer when Jon first came to Winterfell. He’d been given the last name Snow, but his uncle knew the truth when he’d vowed to take the young boy under his protection. Jon was no Snow but a Targaryen, the last of his line and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

But the Targaryens had been overthrown after centuries of dominion and subjugation; the dragon riders’ madness and cruelty had proved too much for the Seven Kingdoms to bear. And when the son of Aerys II, the Mad King, forsook his wife to pursue another, a rose of the North, the dam finally broke. The rebellion was full of blood and indignation, and it left many dead, including the Mad King and his soon.  

The new ruler, King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, would have killed Jon if he’d known the truth of his identity. So Ned hid the truth and told his family that the boy was the natural son of his old friend Howland Reed.

But the truth came out eventually. He’d had to tell his wife and children once he’d seen Jon interact with his eldest daughter, the light of the North. 

 

* * *

 

 

When Jon had first happened upon Sansa in the Godswood, he thought he’d wandered into a dream. She was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen, and he was half-convinced she was Jonquil from the songs or even the Maiden herself. 

When he’d drawn closer to her though, as her red hair danced like ribbons in the air while she spun in her circles and sang to the trees with the sweetest voice, he realized he’d been mistaken, for she was flesh and blood just like he.

“My lady,” he’d whispered in reverence, and she’d stopped spinning.

“My lord,” she’d replied, suddenly all courtesy as she sank into a deep curtsy.

Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of fire. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings.

Jon felt like after years of wandering he’d finally found home in the blue of her eyes. “Just Jon, my lady.”

“Jon,” she replied, and his name he never sounded sweeter.

“May I ask, please, my lady for your name in exchange for mine?”

“I thought you’d already known. I am the daughter of the lord of this house. Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“Sansa,” he breathed. “That’s a pretty name.”

At his words, she bestowed a smile upon him. And from that moment, Jon had loved none but her.

 

* * *

 

 

He was first to love, but her feelings matched his not long after. Their love was deep but perilous. For if Jon’s parentage were to be revealed, it would mean danger for Winterfell and death for him. So when the opportunity arose, Ned Stark separated the young lovers.

He would take Lady Sansa and her younger sister Arya south to the capital at the king’s behest. His eldest Robb would remain in Winterfell and rule in his stead. Bran, who was still recovering from a great fall, would stay as well, along with the youngest Rickon.

And Jon would go north to the Wall, where no one would think to find the last Targaryen prince. 

When Sansa learned the news, she wept, and Jon kissed the teardrops from her cheeks.

“I will not say, do not weep,” he said to her, “for not all tears are an evil.”

“Your leaving is.”

They did not have long to say farewell. 

She found him in the Godswood, staring down at the broken shards of Lightbringer, a once mighty sword that was known in the legends for having struck down the Night King once before.

It has been ordered to remain in fragments by Aegon I.

Jon was studying the blade so intently he almost missed her approach.

“What fear holds so heavy on your heart, my wolf?”

Jon sighed and wrenched his eyes away from Lightbringer. His mother might have had wolf’s blood, but his father...

“I am no Stark.”

“You are to me.”

Jon smiled sadly. “The dragon’s blood flows through my veins. I have the same madness, the same weakness.”

“You are the Mad King’s heir, not the Mad King himself.”

He turned away from her and sighed in frustration. “My path is hidden from me.”

“It is already laid before your feet. You cannot falter now.”

He met her gaze. “Sansa—I—"

From her neck she removed the dragonfly pendant, her most cherished possession, for its powers were drawn from the walls of Winterfell itself, and placed the necklace in his hands. 

“You cannot give me this.”

She frowned. 

“My lady, it is too great a gift—"

“It is mine to give to whom I will.” She found his eyes with hers. “As is my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback! Hope you enjoy!


	3. Lady

 

Arya had not meant to attack the crowned prince. Of course, she had and had hit him as hard as she could, but she hadn’t meant to truly hurt him, not really.

But she had, and the Queen was furious. Arya knew she disliked that woman when she’d first met her at Winterfell, but now she absolutely hated her.

And she hated herself, too, because while she’d had the forethought to chase Nymeria away after she bit Joffrey in the arm, she hadn’t thought to tell Sansa to do the same to Lady.

And now Lady was dead, and it was Arya’s fault.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to her sister.

Sansa raised her head from its cocoon between her arms and looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “It wasn’t your fault,” she croaked. “Joffrey started it, and the Queen made the decision. And the King did nothing to stop her. And Father - had to do it; they would have butchered her."

"I hate them. All the Lannisters," Arya spit out.

"These are—these are dangerous people," Sansa agreed, and she peered down at Lady's leash clutched in her fingertips. "I – I can’t believe they killed her. Lady—my Lady—I—”

Arya sat down next to Sansa and pulled her into her arms as the older girl sobbed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ned’s eyes were weary and dry from spending half the day reading. Hand’s work was different than what he’d expected; he spent half his time fixing Robert’s mistakes and the other half trying to prevent more.

The Crown was not in good standing; Robert had managed to compile inordinate debts, more than Ned could have ever thought possible. But more than that, Robert had not been managing the kingdoms as he should have; in his negligence, he’d allowed the prominent families to plot and take too much power, the Lannisters especially.

Ned did not trust these blonde-haired royals with their golden pockets and silver tongues. There was something amiss, and he was working on doing his best to figure it out. But lately he hadn’t had enough time; constantly someone from the Small Council arrived at his door with more news or a problem that needed solving. Ned was half convinced it was the Queen’s doing; perhaps she was trying to keep him busy on purpose.

Robert was no help. With everything going on, he’d gone hunting. He’d looked nothing short of glee as he eyed the stack of paperwork in front of Ned when he’d announced he was going into the woods for a fortnight. But nothing Ned could say could change his mind.

Pressure was building in the back of his head, and he was forced to take a break to rest his eyes.

“Are you all right, Father?”

“Sansa.”

His eldest daughter swept into the room. “I brought you tea. I thought you might be tired.”

Ned took the cup she offered him with a grateful smile. “Thank you, little one.”

She tried to smile back, but her lips quivered when she tried.

“I am so sorry, Sansa. For Lady. Please forgive me. I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't let them--”

"I know," Sansa nodded, but her lips continued to tremble; she was close to tears.

Ned swept her into her arms.

“I miss her so much,” she cried into her chest.

“I know, I know,” he hushed as he smoothed his hand down her hair.

“And I wish Jon were here.”

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

When King Robert died, Cersei shed no tears. She’d never truly given him her heart; that had always belonged to her brother. She might have been able to spare him some tears in the end, had he not always made it so perfectly clear that he preferred the distant memory of Lyanna Stark to her, alive and his queen.

Her son was king now, and nothing Ned Stark said could threaten that. She had made sure of that when she locked him in the black cells.

“When you play the game of thrones,” she’d told him, “you live or you die. There is no middle ground.” She had not been lying.

But he was not to die yet.

Cersei meant to destroy all her enemies, but she knew it would take time. She had to be smart, like her father.

So she kept the northern fool locked up and kept his daughter close.

 


	4. Parting of the Ways

“Where is she?” Sam asked. “The woman who gave you that pendant.”

Jon thought of the kiss they’d shared as the snows blew in the Godswood. The frosty air of Winterfell had been nothing compared to the bone-chilling cold of beyond the Wall.

He’d been but a green boy that summer when they’d met, he could realize now. He still believed the Others were just grumpkins and snarks and that the Night King was merely a character in one of Old Nan’s stories.

Since leaving Winterfell, he’d learned better. He bore greater knowledge of the world and its harshness just as his bodies bore burns and scars. He’d seen giants and killed Wildlings and had even met the King Beyond the Wall. The burdens and fears he carried now were heavier, but thinking of Sansa still lifted his heart.

“A noble lady of the North.”

“Ah,” replied Sam with a congenial smile. “What was she like?”

Jon pictured her singing in the woods as she combed out the fur of her direwolf’s coat. “She had red hair.”

Sam’s smile broadened. “Oh, I like red hair.” He waited for Jon to give more details, and when he did not Sam asked, “Do you think you’ll ever see her again?”

“She went south with her father.” He had hoped to marry her once, but that was before he’d left; he was not the same boy. He wished for her sake that she had forgotten him, though he knew deep in his heart he could never hope that to be true. “I do not expect to see her again.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Robert Baratheon died from wounds incurred while hunting, Sansa thought that they might go home to Winterfell. She knew that she and Jon could never marry without putting his life at risk; she’d known that from before she’d even given her heart to him. But she could not help but dream of marrying him under a heart tree and giving him children with her eyes and his hair—or her hair and his eyes.

The thought brought sweetness to her heart, even as she endured her captors.

Joffrey was cruel and capricious. He wanted Sansa for his own—not to love but to torment, as a cat plays with its food. 

He humiliated her father and called him a traitor before locking him up in the black cells. Sansa had pleaded and begged the new king to let her visit him, but each request was met with a backhanded blow. She’d cry herself to sleep and think of Jon and their broken dreams.

Arya, thank the gods, had escaped the capital before Joffrey’s reign truly began. Although she worried for her safety, Sansa was glad that Arya had not had to suffer imprisonment in the Great Keep, as well.

But when she’d learned of the death of the deaths of her brothers Bran and Rickon—and much later of her mother and Robb—she wished she’d had her sister there.

 

* * *

 

Her sister never would have approved of her life on the run with a bunch of thieves and murderers as her companions. One look at Arya’s dirty rags or the state of her nails, and she would have forced her to take a bath and come in to check to make sure she’d managed to get all the dirt scrubbed from the back of her neck.

But Sansa was far away, and so was everyone else. HotPie had even stayed behind to work at some inn and bake bread; all she had was Gendry, and now he was telling her he wanted to leave her too.

“I’m going to stay on and smith for the Brotherhood.”

“Have you lost your mind?” she said, not caring about the bluntness of the question. “Do you think when the Lannisters find you, they’ll spare the smiths? They’ll cave your head in with your own hammer!”

“The Lannisters wanted to kill me long before I joined the Brotherhood.”

But Arya could barely hear him. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him.

“I want to,” he replied. “They need good men.”

“My brother Robb needs good men, too. You could come north with me and – ”

“And what? Serve him.” Gendry shook his head. “I’ve served men my entire life. Just once, I’d like to know what it’s like to follow someone I chose for myself—that I can believe in.”

Arya opened her mouth to protest, but Gendry stopped her. “These men are brothers. They’re family.” He looked away. “I’ve never had a family before.”

“I could be your family,” Arya told him, both hopeful and angrily stubborn at once.

“No, you wouldn’t be my family” he said softly. “You’d be m’lady.”


	5. A Storm of Kings

“Sansa, little dove, come here.”

Sansa rose to her feet and left the other women to join Cersei.

The queen poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Sansa. “Here. Drink.”

“Oh, I couldn’t your Grace.”

“Drink,” the queen insisted.

Sansa did as she was told. “What will happen to my father?” she could not help but ask. “If King’s Landing should be sacked?” It was all she’d been thinking about. The Lannisters didn’t have the numbers, and everything she’d heard about Stannis’s army made her more and more sure that the King’s armies would not be able to withstand a siege.

“The black cells are difficult to navigate for those who do not know the way,” Cersei replied. “He might be dead before Stannis’s men even find him.”

Sansa could not help the shiver that swept down her spine.

“But I would be more concerned for yourself, little dove. You do know what happens to women during a sack, do you not?

Sansa had heard whisperings, but the thoughts were so dreadful she could not speak them aloud.

Cersei must have discerned the fear in her eyes, for her lips curled into a smile. “There are no true knights, little dove. Only killers and worse.”

 

* * *

 

 

She’d hated the Hound at first, had kicked and screamed, had even tried to kill him in his sleep. But now that he lay dying before her, Arya could not find it in her to wish him dead.

“Go on, girl, it’s just like I showed you. Where the heart is, that’s where your sword should go.”

She remained silent.

“Go on, girl. Another name off your list.”

Arya fingered the hilt of Needle against her hip and thought of Jon Snow. _Stick ‘em with the pointy end._ He would have been her brother, had Sansa ever had the chance to marry him.

The Hound kept urging her to kill him, but Arya wouldn’t listen.

She crept toward him to steal what remained of his gold.

The hope in his eyes faded as she turned and left.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa sank to her knees in front of her father. Her old bruises had faded from sight, but she could still feel the ghost of their pain.

His face was gaunt, his hair unkempt. For months he had not spoken clearly, only mumbling incoherently when pressed. His watery eyes could not seem to focus on anything but just looked out into the distance, as if seeing nothing.

There was not much to see. They were surrounded by liars: Lannisters and Tyrells, members of the kingsguard, and lords and ladies of the court. For years she had had to smile and bow and maintain all the proper courtesies, and with each insult and injury and loss she turned from porcelain to ivory to steel.

Even still, she has cried when Joffrey died, seeing him clutching his throat, dying at his own wedding. It was just. After what she heard the Lannisters had done to her brother and mother, nothing could have been more just. But she had cried just the same. She had cried harder still when King Tommen, first of his name, had released her father from the black cells and told her they could go home. 

Seeing Lord Eddard Stark now, so weak and frail compared to what she remembered, she felt like she could weep once more.

Theon, her father’s ward for many years, was to serve as their guide. He’d betrayed her father and Robb by helping the Lannisters. But he’d volunteered to go with the Starks north to keep them safe and atone for his sins with each day along the King’s Road. The journey was long, and her father had been weak even before it began.

But eventually they were forced to separate. 

She could still remember the way he’d knelt before her and took her hands in his.

“I would have taken you all the way to Winterfell,” he’d promised. “I would have died to get you there.”

“I know,” Sansa replied and kissed the crown of his head.

And then he’d run into the woods to distract the men who might have killed them otherwise.

Sansa prayed to the old gods every night that Theon escaped. But even more she prayed that they might preserve her father’s life so that he could at least see the North again. He did, and her heart was glad. But sickness and imprisonment and too much milk of the poppy had poisoned his mind. 

“Father,” she called to him. “The Umbers have returned Rickon to us,” she told him gently. “He is—he is very sick.” Her voice cracked. “His wounds—they have festered.”

“Rickon,” Ned Stark grumbled.

“Will you not go to see to him?” Her eyes filled with tears as she forced out the words.

“The sickbed is no place for a lord so weak. He could catch the disease himself,” said Petyr Baelish, emerging out of the shadows to stand behind her father’s seat.

Tommen had been kind to let them leave, but his mother had not allowed them to live in Winterfell alone. Littlefinger had gained control of the North in all but name.

“Father,” Sansa whispered. “Father, please.”

“Littlefinger,” Ned mumbled. “Littlefinger.”

She rose to her feet and left to attend to her dying brother herself. She could feel Petyr’s eyes on her with every step she took.

 

* * *

 

 

Bran looked up at the man in the tree. If everything he was saying was true, then they needed to act quickly, lest the peoples of Westeros be lost to the army of the dead. 

“We must warn them!” 

“Don’t be hasty, Brandon Stark. You still have much to learn.”

“But my family—my friends—they’re all out there! We have to do something! We’re running out of time!”

“Burarum. You must have patience—"

“The army of the dead will spread. The Night King will not rest until we are all under his thrall. And all that was once good in this world is gone. We must do something!”


	6. Khazad Dum

Jon sat in the library staring out the window while across from him Sam read aloud from a heavy tome. He was looking up whatever he could about how to defeat the White Walkers. Jon should have been paying more attention, but there was so much on his mind since he had learned of the death of Lord Commander Mormont and become the new Lord Commander himself.

He had not asked for the position; he didn’t want it truly. He’d never wanted any crown or title. He much preferred being just Jon Snow, the bastard boy, the Ranger from the North.

“Maester Corwyn suggests here that perhaps fire might work—and those blades that have been dragonfire-forged.”

That caught Jon’s attention at last. “Dragonfire-forged? What’s that mean?”

“I’m not sure. But there’s more here, about the blade that was broken...”

Something about the phrase made Jon sit up straight, but before he could say anything, Maester Luwin entered.

“Samwell Tarly, are you up here wasting time re-reading the same four books when there are ravens that need feeding?”

Sam, flustered, babbled back an excuse, but the Maester cut him off.

“Tend to the birds. We need them more now than we need these books. Winter is coming.”

Sam muttered his assurance to do just as commanded and scurried out of the library.

Maester Luwin sat himself in Sam’s vacated seat. He looked weaker than he did just a week ago.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a hundred year old blind man slowly freezing to death.”

Jon could not bring himself to smile. “I need your advice. I don’t know what to do about the Free Folk. I knew the Night’s Watch would never accept them when I let them through our gates, but now...” he sighed. “Now I’m at the brink of mutiny. It’s a pity that I didn’t keep the gates closed.”

“Pity? If you had left them beyond the wall, they would have died and joined the army of the dead. Many that live deserve death and many that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Jon Snow? Do not be too eager to deal out death and judgment. Even the wisest cannot see all ends. Your pity might still have a part to play before this ends.”

“I wish command had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.”

“So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us.” The Maester sighed heavily. “You will find little joy in your command. But with luck, you will find the strength to do what needs to be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy, and let the man be born.”

 

* * *

 

“Who are you?”

She had been Arya Horseface, Arry, Lumpyhead, Arya Underfoot of the Shire, Stickboy, Weasel, Squab, the Blind Girl, and Mercy; she had changed her name as easily as others changed their clothes. 

She had made friends with Lommy, Hotpie, and Gendry, served as cupbearer of the Steward of Harrenhal, escaped the Lannisters, and befriended the Hound. She’d traveled all across Westeros and then to the free city of Bravos dressed as a boy more often than not.

She’d seen her friends die and had killed her enemies herself. 

But deep in her heart, she was still Arya Stark of Winterfell.

“I am no one,” she told Jaime H’gar, the white wizard of the black tower.

“Are you?” he asked.

 

* * *

 

 

When she learned the news, Cersei could not believe it. Her father dead?

No, it had to have been a mistake.

Tywin Lannister could not be dead, for Tywin Lannister was not the kind of man to die.

She’d had to see the body before the news could even register.

Disbelief turned to grief which turned to anger and fury.

Before they’d even brought her father to the sept, she’d summoned cutthroats to seek out Tyrion and kill him. “I will have his head,” she vowed into her wine. “I would take it myself, if it were a little further from the ground.”

“You would die before your stroke fell,” Jaime said, deathly serious.

“He murdered our mother, our first-born, and our father. How can you defend him?”

“He is our brother,” Jaime insisted.

“He is no brother of mine.”

 

* * *

 

 

She was sitting in the Godswood when Littlefinger found her. She had been hoping to be alone; all she had done lately was fret about Winterfell’s grain stores and the amount of swords they were forging and whether the small folk had warm enough cloaks. Some of the tasks she could do, but others...she needed her father.

But he was still all but unresponsive.

“Your grief pains me, my lady,” Littlefinger said as he approached. “But it only serves to make you more beautiful.”

Sansa turned her head away from his gaze. “Leave me alone,” she whispered to herself. She stood up and more loudly asked, “What do you want, Lord Baelish?”

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.”

“I am safe. Winterfell is my home.”

“What about happy?” he pressed in his low growl. “Why aren’t you happy? What do you want that you do not have?” He moved closer to grab a piece of her hair between his fingers.

“Leave me alone,” she begged.

He placed his hand upon her cheek, and Sansa shut her eyes but could not stop the tears from falling. “Oh, but you are alone, my sweet.”

His thumb brushed away her tears. “So fair, so cold,” he observed in a hushed tone. “Like a morning of pale spring...still clinging to a winter’s chill.”

Sansa pulled herself out of his grip. “Your words are poison.”

 


	7. The Golden Hall

“He saw me!” Bran screeched, bursting out of the vision with a gasp. “I saw the Night King, and he saw me, too! He grabbed my arm!”

The Three-Eye Raven’s face was somber. “He touched you?”

“He was so close. I didn’t—I couldn’t—"

“He knows you’re here. He’ll come for you.”

“But—" Bran stammered. “He can’t get in.”

“He can now. You must leave now. The time has come.”

Bran’s heart sped up. “For what?”

“For you to become me.”

“Am I ready?” Bran asked.

“No.”

 

* * *

 

 

Arya knew she wasn’t meant to touch the Palantir that Jaqen kept deep within the Hall of Faces, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d tossed and turned for hours. It had been calling to her.

She crept quiet as a shadow into the hall of faces. Looking over her shoulder to ensure no one had followed her, she lifted the veil over the orb and then softly laid her hands upon it.

The pain was immediate. She could not help but scream.

She could see it—the army of the dead—marching toward Winterfell. There were thousands of them, soldier after soldier after soldier. 

With horror, she watched as they attacked and began to rip away at Bran—Jon—Sansa—

She shrieked louder as the Night King came into view. He was riding atop an ice dragon. 

“I see you!” She heard the words ringing in her ears with a terrible hiss.

Then the vision was gone, and she sank to her knees in pain.

“What did you see?”

“I—I can’t—" Her heart was pounding, and she felt drenched with sweat.

“You must tell me!”

She blinked up at Jaqen H’gar.

“The Night King. He’s building his army. He will attack Winterfell before the storm is through. I must go. I have to help them. It’s—they’ll kill my family.”

The wizard covered the Palantir back up with its veil. “You are no one. You have no family. You cannot leave this place.”

She gave him a blazing look. “I have never been no one. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, and my family is in danger. I must go.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Shut the gate! Shut the gate!”

Jon’s heart was pounding. They hadn’t boarded enough boats yet. They were leaving too many behind at Hardhome.

He opened his mouth to protest, but then he caught a glimpse of the army of wights headed in their direction.

“Get in line!” he yelled. “Get in line!”

The panic on people’s faces was clear. He ran around trying to get the Wildlings to form ranks when he found Tormund Giantsbane. 

“If they get through, everyone will die,” Tormund warned.

Jon nodded and unsheathed his sword. “Night’s Watch! Brothers, with me! Move! Move! Move!”

 

* * *

 

 

The guard eyed the bow and arrow and knife Meera had handed over with doubt and then looked at Hodor uneasily. “You sure that’s all the weapons you have?”

“Hodor.”

“I keep the weapons,” Meera told him. “I’m best with them.”

“What about the staff?” a second guard asked. 

Bran’s lips twitched into a smile and pointed to his broken leg.

“Surely you wouldn’t deprive a cripple of his walking stick.”

The guard fumbled for a response and let them pass through the gates and into the Great Hall. At the far side of the room sat Ned Stark, looking more weak and wizened than Bran had ever seen him. Beside him, Littlefinger was whispering in his ear. 

When he saw Bran enter, he stood up.

“I said no guests today. Lord Stark is very tired, and the hour is late.”

“I am no guest,” Bran declared.

A group of servants who spotted Bran and knew his face started whispering excitedly. When he heard, Baelish frowned. “You are not welcome here.” He leaned closer toward Ned to mutter in his ear.

“Be silent,” Bran commanded. “Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not gone beyond the wall and become the Three-Eyed Raven to bandy crooked words with a witless worm.”

Baelish seethed, but Bran paid him no need. He strode closer to his lord father and pulled off his over cloak to reveal white robes. Then he raised his staff. 

“Lord Eddard Stark, son of Rickard Stark! Too long have you sat in the shadows! Hearken to me! I release you from your spell! I will draw you out from underneath this poison!”

“You cannot have him!” Baelish growled.

“Be gone!” Bran’s eyes turned white as Eddard’s body began to shake.

Littlefinger shouted and tried to stop Bran, but he was immobilized by Hodor before he took a third step in the boy’s direction.

As he did so, Sansa ran into the hall, but she too was restrained by Meera.

“I have to help him!” Sansa protested.

“Just wait!”

A moment later, Bran’s eyes returned to their normal shade, and his shoulders slumped over in exhaustion.

Meera released her hold on Sansa, who raced to her father’s side.

“Father!” she screeched through her tears. “Father, are you all right?”

She sank to her knees and took his cold hands in her own. 

Eddard Stark was silent, but then at last he heaved a deep breath. His hands began to warm and squeezed Sansa’s hands back.

She gasped and looked up to see color returning to Ned’s skin as he hair turned from wispy white to russet brown.

His eyes cleared, and he stared down at his daughter quizzically. “I know your face,” he murmured. “Sansa...Sansa.”

Tears streamed down her face as she smiled in happiness and relief.

Ned kissed her hands in his and looked down the hall. “Bran?”

“Breathe the free northern air again, father.”

“Dark have been my dreams of late.”

“Perhaps,” said Bran as he gestured for Meera to retrieve Ice from its hanging spot behind the great table, “your fingers would remember their old strength again better...if they grasped your sword.”

 


	8. Hope Fails

Jon’s heart rate had not yet returned to normal, even though they’d reached the shore hours ago.

He could not stop seeing the bodies of the dead—of strangers, friends, his own brothers—rising eerily to their feet and staring him down with their ice blue eyes.

And worse still, the image of the Night King with his arms raised, as if to demonstrate his power, as if to say he had already won.

And hadn’t he? Was there really any way to beat the Night King when every soldier his side lost became a member of the army of the dead?

Hope was truly lost.

“I can’t do this, Sam,” Jon admitted once they were alone.

Sam’s shoulders sank. “I know. Even with the dragonglass we have left, we’ll never be able to stop them.” He stood up to inspect the bleak terrain. “It’s not like in the songs, Jon. Those are always filled with good knights and fair ladies, and the ends are always happy. But this is no song.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed. “The dead have no need of music.”

“But maybe this darkness will pass, and winter will be forced to give way to spring. And—and—"

“And what?” Jon asked. “What could possibly make any of this any better?”

Sam shook his head and took a deep breath. “I shall live...and die at my post.”

“I am the sword in the darkness,” Jon said with a sigh. “The watcher on the walls, the shield that guards the realm of men.”

Neither said anything for a few minutes. Then, Jon broke the silence. “I need you to go South.”

“South?” asked Sam, surprised. “But you need me here.”

“I need you to go the Citadel. Learn all you can about the Long Night and the White Walkers. I need—we need to find a way to beat them, Sam.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa stood on the ramparts and looked out past the walls of Winterfell. If she closed her eyes, she could hear the distant sound of wolves’ howling. 

She’d cried in happiness to have both her father and her brother returned to her after so many years of loneliness. But they were both so changed. And despite her momentary relief her anxieties seemed to have returned tenfold. They’d heard news from the Wall; the army of the dead was approaching; Jon was doing his best to fight them as the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

“He’s not coming back,” Littlefinger had whispered in her ear. “Why do you linger here when there is no hope?”

“I still have hope,” she’d told him frostily.

It was that hope which kept her going. That one day they’d be together again and marry underneath the heart tree. And eventually there would be children, a boy who looked like Robb, a girl like Arya. A tear slipped down her cheek as she thought of Jon somewhere along the Wall. Oh, it would be so sweet to see him once again.

The tears had frozen by the time Bran found her. 

“Winter is here,” he observed.

“We’ve always known it was coming,” Sansa tried to joke weakly.

“You are different than what I remember,” he said.

That almost made her smile. “I could say the same of you.” Apart from his clothes—she’d never seen him wear white before—there was something otherworldly about him now. His eyes seemed to see too much, and his voice was also pregnant with deep melancholy.

“Mother always said you were a lady at three and by nine you’d already grown more beautiful than she’d ever be. Your grief has only made you more so. A blue winter rose in a chunk of ice.”

“Beauty is not always a gift.”

“All roses must return to the earth,” Bran admitted.

She shook her head. “I fear neither death nor pain.”

Bran leaned onto his staff and took a step closer. “What is it you fear, Sansa?”

She turned to look past the castle’s walls. “A cage,” she whispered, as soft as wind. “To stay behind bars until use and old age devour me, and there is nothing of me left.”

“You are a Stark, the blood of Winterfell. I do not think that will be your fate.”

Sansa went to take his hand but faltered when Bran’s eyes turned white.

“What is it you see?”

“Someone’s coming.”

“Who?”

“No one.”


	9. A Knife in the Dark

Arya had been in Winterfell for a few weeks and was still getting used to how much it had changed—and how changed she felt.

She found it difficult to talk to Sansa and Bran and even her father. She wanted to gather them all in one room and have them be happy together, but they had loss too many members of their pack to ever be fully whole again.

Brothers had been replaced by strangers. A tall, armored woman said she’d watch over her in place of her mother.

Arya trusted none of them, especially Littlefinger, whom she had spent the last three days following.

She cornered him near the base of the Broken Tower. 

“When did Cersei buy the former Master of Coin?” she asked with an arched eyebrow and cocked head. “What was the promised price? When we’ve all fallen and joined the army of the dead you will take your share of the treasure?”

Littlefinger smirked. “Just a share?”

Arya was in no mood for his games. She grabbed him by the waist, seized the dagger from his belt, and held it to his throat before he could even think to stop her.

“Too long have you watched my sister,” she growled. “Too long have you haunted her steps.” She threw him away from her.

“You see much, young Stark,” Littlefinger said as he scrambled to his feet. “Too much.”

She had intended to leave it as a warning, but she hated the suggestion in his voice as he spoke.

She slashed her dagger across his throat so she would have to hear him no more. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The meeting with Tormund had gone well. There might never be love between the Free Folk and the Black Brothers, but Jon hoped that there could be peace at least. 

Soon they would send some of the Wildlings to journey South to seek shelter and ready the people for the battle approaching. With any luck, they’d convince men to come to the Wall to fight.

Jon would stay and command, though, even if more men did not come. He’d sent Edd to look for Ghost when Olly told him he was needed in the training yard.

The knife had come as a surprise; the remaining six held all the pain. There could have been more, but his eyes began to falter, and he began to feel naught but cold.

“Jon! Jon!” 

He heard the shouting, but he could not move, not even to take a breath. 

The grey rain-curtain of this world began to turn back, and all turned to silver glass.


	10. Evenstar

And then he saw her. She was in the Godswood and wearing a blue dress of airy silks, nearly translucent, and atop her flowing red hair was a crown of winter roses.

“This is a dream,” he sighed, though he reached for her hand anyway. When he could feel the soft warmth of her skin against his, all the tension left his body.

Sansa used her free hand to trace the scar along his eye. “Then it is a good dream,” she whispered against his lips before kissing him.

He relished the touch of her fingers in his hair, the feel of her body clad in the barest silks flush against his own, the smell of her as his nose settled into the crook of her long neck. She was better than any of the songs.

Eventually, she pulled away just enough to look him in the eyes. “You’re fading.” Her fingers traced the dragonfly pendant at his throat.

“I’m dying,” he corrected.

“No,” she whispered as tears slipped down her cheeks. “Don’t leave my here alone, Jon Snow. Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

He tried to smile, to take her lips, and feel the smooth silk of her hair, but his body was too broken and smarted from every wound. He lost the struggle to keep his eyes open, her face the last thing he saw when his vision blurred and past into night.

“No, Jon, don’t give in. Not now.”

She dropped to her knees in front of the heart tree to pray to the old gods.

“What grace is given me, let it pass to him…Let him be spared…Please, gods of the North, save him.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was Ghost he saw when the light returned to his eyes. 

But he knew the reason why he could again draw breath.

“Sansa.”

 

* * *

 

 

The task had taken nearly all her strength, and she’d all but collapsed onto the couch in her solar.

But as she breathed slowly in and out, she knew his heart was beating, for it beat the same rhythm as her own.


	11. The Lonely Mountain

“There are whispers, your Grace, of a man who has been reborn from the dead.”

“Tales for children. Why should I take any mind? I have a kingdom to run and three dragons to raise.”

“Because, your Grace, these are no ordinary whispers. Varys has told me news is growing by the day of Jon Snow.”

“Jon Snow,” repeated Daenerys Stormborn derisively. “I care not for this bastard Ranger from the North.”

“My queen,” tried Tyrion again, this time with an edge to his patient tone, “the people say he is no bastard but a trueborn Targaryen prince. If the rumors are true, then by all rights, he is the rightful heir to the—"

Daenerys stood. “I will not bow to him. Dragonstone has no king. Dragonstone needs no king.”

“Yes, your Grace, but if you will just—"

“Invite this Jon Snow to Dragonstone. Send a ship to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I would meet my rival and show him what a true dragon can do.”

 

* * *

 

 

The vows had been for life, but he’d given that up for the cause already, hadn’t he?

“Where will you go?” Edd asked.

Home, his heart wanted to say. To Winterfell. 

“Dragonstone,” his lips said instead. “I’ve been summoned to meet with the Dragon Queen.” Jon passed the scroll to Edd so he could read it.

“She will not give up her dragons for our cause,” Edd declared.

“Likely not,” Jon agreed. But he hoped she’d at least consider sending some dragon glass. In Winterfell there were smiths talented enough to make use of it. He’d put Davos in charge of figuring out what they could possibly spare in exchange. With any luck, she’d be persuaded.

“She has dragons,” Edd reminded him. “Big, fire-breathing, monsters that don’t even need to be able to fly to kill you where you stand. And you’re gonna what? Ask her nicely?”

Jon groaned. “It’s a bad plan, but I have to try.” His death might have freed him from his vows, but he was still a shield for the realms of men. “Look for my coming—at the first light of the twelfth day. Look to the east.”

 

* * *

 

 

“A raven from the Wall, Your Grace. Jon Snow is on his way.”

Daenerys nodded. “Good.”

“He mentions that in the North they have need of dragon glass.”

“Dragon glass?”

“Obsidian,” Tyrion explained. “The mines of Dragonstone are full of it.”

“And?” Daenerys prodded.

“He asks you to send as much as you can as soon as you can to Winterfell so they can use it to make weapons.”

Daenerys frowned. “And why should I do that?”

“As a sign of good will,” Tyrion explained. “You have no need of these rocks, My Queen. Give the Northman what he wants. It costs you nothing.”

“No? Just my time, resources, and supplies.”

“He says in exchange Winterfell will send five ships filled with grain.” His voice became more urgent. “We need food." 

Daenerys watched her dragons fly above the sea as she debated her choice. It still made her heart leap to see her children alive and free as they were meant to be.


	12. A Warm Welcome

Arya awoke as if from a dream and headed straight for the forge.

“Gendry.”

He pulled a tunic over his bare chest and clambered from his bed to his feet.

“Arya—what are you—?” His eyes were bleary, his shoulders hunched. He’d gotten almost no sleep for the past two weeks. All he’d done was make sword after sword, arrow after arrow, so that he could make good use of the dragon glass that had arrived and give their men a fighting chance.

“I need you to reforge it,” she said, wasting no time.

“What?”

She removed the linen from the steel she carried with her.

“Lightbringer,” Gendry breathed. He stood motionless in admiration for a few moments before he squared his jaw. “This goes beyond my skill. I cannot do this, my Lady.”

“You will,” Arya insisted. “Renewed shall be the blade that was broken. The crownless again shall be king.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jon was not sure Davos’s presence was helping with negotiations. The Onion Knight knew how to deal with all types, but this Dragon Queen was more intransigent than even he’d expected. 

She was fair and beautiful, her silver hair arranged in many braids along her back. But a fire lurked behind her violent eyes.

“You think you are brave, Jon Snow. Yet for all your courage you lack common sense. Do you think my eyes are blind? I have seen more than you know. Do you think me deaf? I have heard the rumors of a lost dragon in our midst. Oh, yes, word of this has reached me.”

“I will not deny it,” said Jon, his heart beating in his throat. “I am Rhaegar’s heir.”

“My brother’s children are dead!” 

“Elia’s children, yes. Lyanna Stark was my mother. I am half dragon, half wolf.”

“Do not feign innocence then. With your left hand you would use me as your shield against the Night King and with your right you would seek to supplant me.”

“Your Grace, I do not seek the throne.”

“I am the Last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honor my claim. Bend the knee, and I will grant your request. Together we will save this country from those who would destroy it.”

Jon was silent as he tried to figure out how to proceed. He looked to his advisor, who rocked forward on his heels as he turned to Daenerys. 

“Your Grace, I am no high lord. I grew up in Flea Bottom. I have no knowledge of names and titles. But I know that if we don't put aside our petty squabbles and band together we will die. And then it doesn't matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne.”

“If it doesn't matter,” observed Tyrion with a shrewd smile, “you might as well kneel.”

Jon shook his head. “I mean no offense, Your Grace. But there is no time for any of this. We must head North.”

  
“I do not need to do anything. Did you see my three dragons as you arrived here? With just one simple command of ‘Dracarys,’ I could burn you alive.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The raven had come in the night, and since dawn every able-bodied was readying himself to march North.

 Sansa had begun preparations hours before most had woken up. She knew the battle was coming, but the food rations were not ready, too many men still lacked steel, warm cloaks and leathered armor were too sparse. 

 As she crossed the training yard, she spotted Arya teaching young boys and girls how to swing a sword. 

 Arya would march into battle with her father, while Bran and Sansa would stay behind with the elderly, women and children. 

 It was her job to keep Winterfell standing, to keep the people’s spirits up, to rule in her father’s stead, if need be.

 She found him in the crypts. 

 “I have left instructions,” he told her. “Take up my seat in the Great Hall. The people will follow you. I believe most of them already do. If we fail, you must protect them.”

 The thought of his never returning made her feel ill. “What other duty would you have me do, Father?”

 "Duty? No.” Ned kissed the crown of her head and swiped his thumb across the tears on her cheek. “I would have you smile again. Not grieve for those whose time has come.” He took her hands in his. “You will live to see the wolves come home again.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hoped you enjoyed this prologue! I have the fic mostly written already so I will be updating every few days and hope to have this all done before the new season comes out!


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